Match made in hell…

I feel like a month has gone by since my post, so much has happened. As I fly by the seat of my pants through each day it occurs to me that most days go by in an absolute blur.

Today for example I don’t think I looked at the clock more than twice. Once to check the time before a meeting at 1 pm and then again at 4 pm when Jane walked out the door and I wondered where she was going? Jane comes in at noon and those four hours of constantly ringing phones, chasing prescriptions from the Doctors, queries, appointments and questions, felt like about 4 minutes.

We were interviewing today too. I wanted to grab the first one by the hand and say please, please come and work here, we need you but of course we don’t want to come over as desperate. even though we are definitely borderline desperate.

I love working at the surgery but it is for the hardcore. It is busy, always, every day, every minute in fact.

As a society we have become quite impatient. We now live in a world where we expect things quicker. We want more from our services, whether we pay for them or not. It is expected that if someone wants something they shall have it and they will be going nowhere until they get it!

It can be quite draining, especially when you have to be nice to them to them all.

Despite all that I keep going back for more. I think that says more about me than the job to be fair. I like to be busy and I definitely work better under pressure, if I am left idle for too long I can become complacent and day-dream and then nothing will get done. If I am given the opportunity to chat then chat I will… and once I start there is no stopping me, I can go on for hours. As my buddies will testify.

At the weekend I decided to be idle. It was gorgeous weather and I really should have been gardening. I feel a bit like Moses at the moment trying to part the green grass to the washing line.

However, I didn’t do the grass and now I just feel lazy.

The worst of it is the grass isn’t going anywhere it is just going to keep growing until I get off my lazy butt and do something about it, still there is always next weekend!

I did though, catch up with my very lovely friend on Saturday morning for coffee and cake and another equally lovely friend for dinner and far too much alcohol Saturday evening. I should probably point out that Tom and Elsie were at their Grandparents this weekend and even though they are 11 and 14 (nearly) they still really enjoy spending time there and I am more than happy for the respite but you know what I was saying about idle hands…

… and these idle hands decided to join a dating site!

Yes really.

Now, joining a dating site while you are intoxicated might seem like a mighty fine idea at the time but when you get to the Sunday morning hangover and you realise you have parted with a grocery shops worth of money to be inundated with messages saying ‘Hi x’ and 472 “winks” from men of all shapes, sizes and variety, whose ages range from 27 (yes27) to 73 (yes 73), it can be a little bit overwhelming, to say the least.

Flattered as I may be to be “winked” at by a 27-year-old whose body would no doubt look absolutely beautiful in between my sheets and although Peter (who at 73 is older than my own parents), looks very sweet and I’m sure is really lovely, I just can’t see myself dating either of them.

So here is where the problem begins. Do I have to be polite?

Am I expected to reply, even if it is just to say ‘Sorry I don’t think you are my type’ or am I expected to strike up conversations with anyone, in the hope that despite them being 27 or 67, they may turn out to be the one.

The one, now there’s a term. Who or what exactly, is the one? How do you find the one? Do you just wait and hope he bumps in to you in Sainsburys? Is he the one right now or is the one supposed to be forever? How do you know the difference?

There are plenty of single, separated and divorced people out there, did they think they had the one then the one went and met another one ? What the hell happens? How do you work this stuff out?

Personally, I don’t think I have met the one yet, I am trying not to give up hope after all I am still young…ish. I have good teeth, I know this because it is pointed out to me, a lot. I have good hair, when I can be bothered to tame it and I dress well, I think. I have a nice personality, so I am told. I am not perfect, well not quite. I have a flat bottom, something which has bothered me for a while but I can’t be bothered to do 50 squats a day so I’m learning to live with it. I have a hideously loud laugh and am not good when I’m premenstrual but what woman is.

I would like to date but I am terrified. I can’t even manage an online conversation without over analysing everything I say. The person on the other end of our virtual chat must think I have terrible wi-fi and as well as over analysing my own conversation I am over analysing theirs too, looking for a hidden meaning in the question, ‘so Jo how long have you been single?’ While trying to come across as intelligent, genuine, funny and flirty but not too flirty. Jesus, it’s exhausting.

Even more exhausting after you have just read five chapters of Great Expectations with your 11-year-old son as part of his English homework.

I’m not sure who was more disgruntled me or Tom. He doesn’t understand a bloody word of it, uncouth child that he is. To make matters worse a 100 word synopsis was required for this morning’s English lesson, I suspect as proof that they had actually read it. So after painstakingly forcing him to read and then trying to prize a bit more information out of him than the boy’s name, which is announced on the first page, I found myself almost writing the bloody thing for him.

I almost wanted to add a postscript to the teacher.. ‘Really, Dickens already! You couldn’t have done that one next year when he has had a moment to get used to the giant leap required from Diary of a wimpy kid in to the world of Classics. No. You had to do it now!’